Oct 23, 2019: Fumes

You know what? I don’t think I have enough clothes with pretty large paint splodges on them. I think, when I do the next coats of paint on the stuff upstairs, I’m going to dig out an entirely clean outfit and see what damage I can do.

I think I am one of the messiest painters around. Not in a splash it all over the walls and floor kind of way – aside from the few times that I have just dropped the brush because I’m clumsy – but I do manage to get paint everywhere.

I get a brush, which is clean and unsullied. I open the tin of paint, remaining paint free in the hands area.

I dip the brush into the paint, remove the excess, and start painting.


Paint on the handle of the brush.

How? Where has it even come from? How has it got there?

I’ve done it twice in as many days and I just don’t understand. I assume – the only explanation, really – that I am in some way exuding the paint through my skin. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I’m not dipping my fingers in the paint, nor am I just applying paint to the centre of the brush.

But there it is.

So there’s that.

And I paint. I cover things evenly. I tackle the tricky bits, I wiggle the brush into awkward corners. All that stuff.

I pack up. I clean the brush. Wash my hands.

Go about my non-painting business.

Then a bit later I will touch my t-shirt or trousers and be alarmed by a stiffened patch. What can it be?

Oh, it’s paint.

My t-shirt looks like I held the brush, by the bristles, in the fabric of the shirt.

What the heck is that all about?

I didn’t.

Or I don’t think I did.

Am I losing time while I paint. Are the paint fumes causing me to go doolally? I’m mistreating the paintbrush and somehow covering its handle in paint, and myself. And I am there all the time and am fairly sure I would notice if I did either of those two things…